


A Name

by ponticle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hidden Affair, Humor, Love, Love Triangle, M/M, POV Alistair, POV Anders, Romance, Secret Identity, Secret love, Sex, chance encounter, not so slow burn, nothing too crazy graphic though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-16 02:46:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8083672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle
Summary: Anders is on the run following the events of Dragon Age II. Two years after the explosion in Kirkwall, he finds himself in the dungeon of King Alistair Theirin.   This story is complete. Happy reading! World State Note: This is a hardened Alistair, who demands he be made king and leaves the wardens when the HOF recruits Loghain. This Anders was friendly with Hawke, but told to run and never come back when Hawke sided with the Mages.  I decided to publish this piece before publishing the much-anticipated sequel to The Affair because I needed more magic in my life. :)





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Ever since I stumbled into writing this couple, I'm alarmed by how much I like them. If you think about it, they're very similar--both disenfranchised, both wounded, both struggling. i LOVE THEM.

* * *

 

**Anders**

_Run_. 

So he _ran_ —harder and faster than he thought was possible. Wind whipped through his hair around each corner and branches snagged his threadbare cloak, but he ran. He ran because Hawke said he _had_ to. He ran despite Justice’s protestations. He ran without regard for the building soreness in his legs and chest. He ran like his life depended on it—because it _did._

 

* * *

 

**Alistair**

 

“Is there anything else?” Alistair drummed his fingertips against the edge of his throne’s armrest irritatedly.

“Just one item, Your Majesty,” said a seneschal whose name Alistair could never remember.

He rolled his eyes unintentionally, “what is it?”

The attendant winced. “An apostate mage has been picked up—matching the description of the one who was responsible for the explosion in Kirkwall.”

Alistair perked up, his interest piqued. “Where is he now?”

“In the dungeons, Your Grace. Should I have him sent up?”

Alistair stood suddenly. “No, I'll go down there to see him myself.”

The throne room cleared in his wake, dozens of worried eyes trailing him out of the room. Life as the king of a recently wounded nation had changed him—but this type of thing was par for the course. He could tolerate almost anything now. Anything but his own memories.

 

* * *

 

**Anders**

Light streamed in through a solitary window in the upper corner of his cell. It was the only indication that it was day. There had been no breakfast or even human contact to remind him of the passage of time. But based on the light, he'd been here two days already. Anders curled into a tight ball against the back wall when he heard the iron bolt turn in the prison door. He didn't want to attract any undue attention, even though he would have _begged_ for a single slice of bread.

“He's in the last cell, Your Majesty,” said a guard. Anders pulled his knees closer to his chest and peeked between the too-long strands of his bangs.

A man wearing a crown alighted before him. He recognized him as Alistair Theirin—ruler of Ferelden. Anders had been running for so long at this point he didn't know what country he was in from week to week—this was a pretty good indication that it wasn’t _Orlais_ anymore.

“It _is_ you,” said Alistair appraisingly. He crossed his arms and stood menacingly on the other side of the bars.

Anders wanted to argue—claim to be _anyone_ else—but it was no use. He felt the taint dripping off of Alistair as soon as they were within ten feet of each other. Alistair would have felt it too.

“I wondered if I would ever see you again…” said Alistair. “First in Amaranthine, then in Kirkwall, and now _here_ …”

Anders let his knees drop open and straightened slightly. “We seem to travel in the same circles.” The joke was _stupid_ —Anders knew that—but he had nothing left to lose, all he had was his wit.

Alistair _almost_ smiled—it was closer to a sneer, probably.

“What are you doing here?” asked Anders.

“I could ask you the same thing,” said Alistair. He took two steps closer until he was standing against the bars. The cell was small enough that Anders could have touched him if he'd extended his arm all the way.

“I didn't come here to cause you any harm—I didn't mean to come here _at all_ , actually,” said Anders. He thought about standing, but his legs felt like lead. He hadn't been fed in two days; he was barely even conscious.

“A lot of people are looking for you, you know,” said Alistair.

“I realize that.” Anders squinted up at Alistair. He was acting sort of strangely. Something about his demeanor was different than the last time he'd seen him—colder, more calculating.

“So what do you propose I do with you?” asked Alistair.

“I suppose it would be out of the question to let me go?” Anders smirked.

Alistair shook his head, but Anders saw a hint of a smile somewhere behind his eyes.

“How about a meal?” asked Alistair.

Anders’ mouth watered.

“Guard,” called Alistair, “get this man some food immediately.” He turned back toward Anders, “I can't have you _dying_ while I decide.”

Alistair turned to leave as quickly as he'd come.

 

When Anders was again alone, he was presented with a tray of food that was mostly just gruel, but he ate it as if it were the finest Orlesian delicacy. It was gone too soon, but at least he would last the night. He couldn't help but feel a pull in his gut. Something was off—something he couldn't name. There likely wouldn't be time to find out, though. He needed to get out of here as soon as possible.  Based on the defenses he'd catalogued on his way in, his escape plan would need to be _elaborate_. He decided to use the calories he'd just consumed as judiciously as possible—to find a way _out_.

 

* * *

 

**Alistair**

On the way back to his quarters, he caught a glimpse of that damn statue outside in the square. Loghain’s visage was a constant reminder of everything he'd been through in the last decade. Now, with word of an Inquisition forming on the line between Ferelden and Orlais, Alistair found himself feeling just as conflicted as he was then. He didn't regret his decision to commandeer the throne and leave the grey wardens—he couldn't _imagine_ what else he could have done in light of Cousland’s betrayal. _She_ was the one who said he should look out for himself, after all. Apparently, she didn't expect him to extend that logic to _her_. She considered herself above sanction—even the ones she invented.

 

On days like today, though, he could see those same shades of gray he'd seen then. That mage sitting on the floor of his dungeons—lying in filth and starving to death—what had he really done to deserve such a fate? Taken a stand against a flawed system? Some people had died; _yes_ —people who were blameless—but in Alistair’s experience, people _always_ died.

Just as he was about to round the corner into his room, a messenger caught him.

“Your Majesty, I have a message from Empress Celene.”

“Thank you,” Alistair took the note and bolted his door behind him.

He threw his cape over the back of a chair and left his boots next to the hearth. Although it was winter, Alistair was too hot and elected to peel his shirt off before sitting at his desk.

The letter explained that Celene had selected an Arcane Adviser in light of the building threat of breaches across Thedas. She suggested Alistair do the same. They weren't friends, by any stretch of the imagination, but they had found a tenuous bond—after all, they were both _miserable_ and _alone_ and expected to run countries, nevertheless.

Alistair sighed and left the note on his desk. He intended to write back, but not now. Instead, he stretched himself out across his bed and stared at the stone ceiling. _An arcane adviser_. He squished his eyes with his palms and tried to think. He needed someone absolutely trustworthy—someone who was _committed_ to causes, someone without any discernible ties, someone without a hint of political ascendancy.

_Anders._

Suddenly wide awake, Alistair grabbed a new shirt from his wardrobe and raced down the hallway. When he reached the dungeons, he waved at the guards dismissively and rushed to stand in front of the cell as he had earlier. At this time of day, almost no light made its way in through the tiny cell window. He couldn't see Anders’ face.

“ _Mage_ ,” he began curtly, “I require your services.”

Anders didn't say anything, but he tilted his head up toward Alistair.

“In return, you will be allowed _limited_ access to the grounds and given the essentials—food, clothing, shelter…” continued Alistair.

Anders still didn't speak, but he moved. He began to stand. It was painstakingly slow. His legs looked like they might give out at any second—they were barely thicker than Alistair’s arm. How long had he been slowly starving?

“And what services would these be?” asked Anders slowly. He'd managed to get to his full height and leaned against the other side of the bars. Eye to eye, Alistair could finally see his expression. He looked smug, confident, even _brave_.

Alistair tried to match him by straightening his shoulders and squaring his jaw.

“Magical, of course,” answered Alistair. “Guards,” he tuned, “let this man out. Find him some clothes and then send him to some guest quarters… _near_ mine—where we can keep an eye on him.”

Anders looked surprised. He backed away from the cell door so it could be unlocked. His first steps out were wobbly.

“I am trusting you,” said Alistair warningly. “If you give me even the _slightest_ indication that that trust has been misplaced, I will not _hesitate_ to send you back here.”

Anders nodded.

 

 


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair has some work for Anders to do. In typical Ferelden fashion, nothing goes as planned.

* * *

 

**Anders**

Two days later, Anders hadn't been called on to do anything. He hadn't even been permitted to leave his room, although it was certainly a nicer prison than the one he'd had downstairs. He even had a full-size window overlooking the training grounds. This morning, he found himself sitting on the sill, watching the military practice formations. Absently, he ate an apple. A fresh piece of fruit in winter was a rare treat. He couldn't _remember_ the last time he'd been allowed one.

His eye was suddenly pulled by a glint of metal and a shock of red hair in the courtyard below. He couldn't hear them, but Alistair seemed to be gesturing for everyone to go on as if he _hadn't_ just interrupted them. He pulled out a sword from his hip and fell in behind the troops, practicing like a novice.

He _wasn't_ a novice, though. That was absolutely clear from his movements. Each one of his steps was timed like a dance and his sword arm never wavered. It was a little like watching Hawke. Garrett often said that learning to use a sword was as natural as learning to use his own hands. Anders could relate, of course. His own way with magic was intrinsic. He couldn't imagine _not_ being magical any more than people could imagine an amputation.

 

On the morning of the third day, Anders believed that no one was _ever_ going to come for him. He'd begun rifling through the assorted bookshelves for something to keep him occupied. He eventually settled on a terribly written romance novel that had notes scribbled in all the margins. He was flopped on the bed reading it when the door opened.

“Just leave the tray on the desk,” he said, without looking up.

“Anders,” said a deep voice.

Anders dropped the book and propped himself on his elbows.

“I see you're _acclimating_ ,” said Alistair. He gently ran his fingertips across some manuscript pages Anders had left on the desk.

“Yes,” said Anders tentatively. He stood and hovered between the bed and Alistair. It was an awkward dance of wanting to seem alert, but nonthreatening.

“Well, I have some work for you to do today…” said Alistair. “The first snows have killed a variety of crops throughout Redcliffe,” he took a step closer to Anders, “we need to head out there and distribute supplies.”

“What do you need from me?” asked Anders.

“Tensions are running high there,” Alistair cleared his throat, “it was the headquarters of the mage rebellion until recently.”

“So you want me to do _what_ , exactly?” Anders was _notorious_ throughout the region. He was likely to draw attention—he wondered if Alistair realized that he probably wouldn't be an asset.

“I need you to _advise_ me—tell me if the region has been damaged by the residual magic used there… that sort of thing,” explained Alistair.

The type of evaluation he wanted wasn’t necessarily possible, but Anders didn't say that. He wanted to be out of the dungeon as long as possible and out of the castle was even _better._

“Okay, when do we leave?”

“Today,” answered Alistair. “What do you need?”

“Just a staff, if you have one,” answered Anders.

Alistair nodded and left down the hallway.

When Anders was again alone, he grabbed what few things he'd acquired since his unexpected stay here and threw them into a pack. He wouldn't need to leave anything behind—if everything went as planned, he _wouldn't_ be coming back here.

 

* * *

 

**Alistair**

“It's a two day trip on foot,” explained Alistair. They were walking side by side at the front of the group. A few assorted kingsguards tailed them by several steps.

“Explain why we didn't take horses again?” joked Anders.

“We’re trying to be inconspicuous—subtle,” smirked Alistair. He'd left his crown at home as well as his formal armor. Everyone in their party wore simple leathers and carried unheralded shields.

Anders nodded and stared out into the forest. Alistair marveled at how much _better_ he looked today than he had in that cell. Just a few days of sleep and food and he had started to put on weight—the hollows of his cheeks were beginning to fill in. His hair was less greasy now that he'd showered and Alistair noticed there were gray pieces intermingled with the blonde at his temples. He looked older than he had when Alistair saw him in Kirkwall just two years earlier.

“Can I _do_ something for you?” asked Anders suddenly.

Alistair’s reverie was broken and he blinked.

“Normally, I don't mind people staring, but this is becoming _unnerving_ ,” joked Anders.

“Oh…” Alistair almost laughed, “I was just thinking about the way time passes…”

“Oh?” Anders side-eyed him. “What does _that_ mean?”

“I wondered what two years on the run must have been like for you,” admitted Alistair. He wasn't usually prone to being so candid, but with their tainted connection, it was harder to lie—Anders would _feel_ the difference.

“Well, it gave me a chance to see the countryside,” said Anders jovially. His face was a facade, though, Alistair could tell. There was a growing feeling of _dread_ between them.

“Did you ever go back to see Hawke?” asked Alistair.

“No. He and Merrill are finally settled in together…” said Anders sadly. He kicked a patch of grass on the path in front of him as he walked. “I heard they just welcomed a daughter…”

Alistair raised an eyebrow.

“So… they don't need me ruining everything. They certainly don't need someone endangering their _child_ …” Anders seemed to be talking to himself more than to Alistair. Alistair took it as a hint and stayed quiet for the rest of the day. That night, they erected tents around a campfire and went to sleep without another word.

 

* * *

 

**Anders**

He had _two seconds_ to decide—now or never.

When the bandits attacked, chaos erupted from all sides. They were only half a day from Redcliffe and suddenly they were surrounded. The guards went first. In service to their king, they'd sacrificed themselves without hesitation. Anders had _tried_ to save them, but he was rusty. He hadn't healed anyone during a battle in over two years. He watched them gurgle and scream to their deaths all around him as he tried to remember how to help. Their voices were still ringing in his ears.

Alistair was cutting down foe after foe in front of him as time moved in slow motion. Anders knew this was his only opportunity. He could be back on the run in a matter of seconds. He turned—ready to dash—when over his shoulder he saw the last of the bandits plunge a sword into Alistair’s flank. Alistair crumbled to his knees, but kept his shield high overhead, blocking a blow. He wouldn’t last long, though—Anders could tell. Blood was forming a puddle on the ground next to him.

Anders dropped his bag at the edge of the clearing and ran back into the center where Alistair was dying. He used every ounce of mana he had to fuel an energy bomb. The bandit backed up suddenly clutching his skin—Anders had been told it _itched_ to be infected. He shuddered, even as he exploded the man into a thousand indiscernible pieces.

When the clearing was silent, Anders ran to Alistair and propped his head up. Alistair rested heavily on Anders’ lap and blinked at the sky. Anders couldn’t tell if he was actually _seeing_.

“Why did you come back?” rasped Alistair.

“Maker only knows,” muttered Anders between incantations. His hand wrapped around Alistair’s damaged side and warmth spread out his fingers through the badly damaged leather.

Alistair winced.

“Shh,” soothed Anders, “it’s okay—you’re going to feel much better in a second.”

Alistair relaxed a little—breathing shallowly, but steadily.

“See?” asked Anders a moment later. The wound was closed from the outside; the steady stream of blood had ceased.

Alistair nodded and blinked a few times. His vision focused on Anders and he smiled weakly. “Thank you,” he managed.

“Don’t thank me yet… you’re not cured,” said Anders. “I can do more for you, but it might take a while…” He scanned the treeline, looking for inconspicuous spots to rest. “Come on, we need to set up a tent somewhere off the path.”

 

* * *

 

**Alistair**

Something warm and wet was in contact with Alistair’s side. It wasn’t unpleasant—it felt like being in a very concentrated bathtub. Before he opened his eyes, he searched his immediate vicinity with his fingertips. His hand ran into a soft bit of skin and a rough tunic.

“Keep your hands to yourself or I might get the wrong idea,” laughed Anders.

Alistair snapped his eyes open and blinked. His hand was accidentally caressing a bit of Anders’ exposed thigh. He retracted it immediately.

“You _must_ be feeling better if you can unintentionally fondle people,” joked Anders.

Alistair felt himself blushing. “Sorry…” He looked down at his chest and noticed it had been expertly bandaged. His side felt relatively whole again. He tried to sit up with limited success.

“Not so fast,” said Anders. He put both hands on Alistar’s shoulders and pushed him back onto the mat.

Alistair grumbled, but acquiesced. “Where are we?” he asked.

“About two hundred meters from the clearing where we were attacked,” answered Anders. He’d resumed whatever he was doing with his hand that felt so warm. Alistair wished he’d do that over his entire body.

“Those bandits were fierce,” said Anders absently.

“They _weren’t_ bandits,” interrupted Alistair. He swallowed a cough and looked up at Anders’ face intensely. “They were highly trained—they cut through my guards like they were initiates.”

Anders squinted.

Alistair could _feel_ him worrying. He shivered noticeably.

“Sorry, I forgot you can feel that. I haven’t been around wardens in ages,” said Anders. He was smiling again.

Alistair managed to smirk. “I miss that, actually,” he mused. “Feeling what everyone else feels… it’s such a relief not having to actually _ask_ anyone what they’re thinking…”

“Oh yes, I love the lack of privacy,” added Anders.

They both laughed.

“I think that’s about as much as I can do for now,” said Anders. He dipped his hands into a bowl of water near Alistair’s head and wiped them on a dirty-looking cloth. “Now you need to rest—and so do I.”

Alistair nodded. “Thank you.”

 

The morning seemed to come instantly. Alistair awoke feeling better than he had in ages—awake, alive, even refreshed. As he acclimated to the light, he realized that Anders was asleep on the other side of the tent.

Alistair cleared his throat, “hello?”

Anders sprung upright, blue flames erupting from his eyes.

Alistair backed up in surprise, clutching his chest in pain at the sudden movement.

Anders retracted as quickly as he’d risen, embarrassment etched into the creases of his face. “I’m sorry; you startled me.”

“I can see that…” said Alistair. He hadn’t moved away from the wall of the tent, just in case.

“I usually have him under control these days…” muttered Anders, rubbing a palm across his forehead. He looked slightly sweaty. “I guess the battle yesterday and all the healing afterward took a lot out of me…”

Alistair nodded hesitantly. He was almost convinced it was safe to return to his mat.

“Are you feeling better?” asked Anders. He crawled across the tent and looked at Alistair’s torso appraisingly. He leaned in so closely that a strand of long hair brushed Alistair’s shoulder.

“Yes,” he cleared his throat, “ _much_. Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome. Come on,” he picked up the hem of his robes and scooted toward the tent opening. “We need to get moving—it isn’t safe to stay here too long.”

Alistair nodded and followed him outside.

The air was freezing outside their tent. He realized that Anders must have been keeping the whole thing warm magically all night—no wonder he looked so tired this morning. Alistair threw his layers of clothing on as quickly as possible and began packing up the rest of their things. He was alarmingly improved today.

“You’re really quite amazing, you know,” he said to Anders.

“I hear that a lot… you’re going to have to be more specific,” he smirked.

Alistair smiled, despite himself, “I’m feeling much better—I almost feel _alive_.”

“Well, let’s get out of here before we meet up with someone who wants you _less_ alive,” said Anders darkly.

Alistair swallowed hard and picked up the rest of his things.

 

They trudged through six inches of snow all day, until they finally arrived at the gates of Redcliffe. Every time Alistair came here, it felt more awkward than the last. He grew up here, of course, but it had never been _home_. Today, he was relieved that he looked like a common mess—no one would bat an eye in his direction.

“When we get inside, let _me_ do the talking,” said Anders quietly.

“What?” whispered Alistair. He narrowed his eyes.

“I have a lot more experience at sneaking around than you do,” said Anders dismissively.

“What makes you think we need to _sneak_?” asked Alistair.

Anders rolled his eyes and approached the local inn. He stepped inside and found the proprietor straight away.

Alistair stood awkwardly near the bar, waiting. He knew he didn’t _have_ to, but Anders seemed adamant—and he was _right_ : sneaking wasn’t part of a King’s job description, normally.

“They’ve given us a room upstairs—they only have _one_ free,” said Anders.

Alistair shrugged.

“Come on, let’s get out of sight,” Anders looked around the crowded bar surreptitiously and took Alistair’s arm to pull him up the narrow staircase.

“Send up a few pints, will you?” asked Anders, leaning back into the bar. A serving girl nodded and blushed, looking from Anders to Alistair and back again.

 

The room was small, but cozy. A fire was roaring on one end and a small bed was piled high with pillows and blankets. There was even a tiny writing desk. It was something Alistair would have loved if he were alone—a comfortable getaway.

“I’ll sleep in that chair,” he announced.

Anders rolled his eyes, “Don’t be ridiculous. Pull off your shirt and let me have a look at you,” he commanded.

Alistair dropped his things and started disrobing. For some reason, he felt powerless to do anything other than what Anders told him to do. He wondered transiently if this is what blood magic felt like and laughed to himself.

“What’s funny?” asked Anders, ushering him into the bed.

“Oh,” Alistair stretched out on his back, “ _nothing_ … how do I look, Doc?” He smiled, “am I going to make it?”

Anders bit his bottom lip and pushed probingly into Alistair's abdomen in several places. “I think you _might_ … does any of this hurt?”

Alistair shook his head. “Tickles a little.”

Anders smiled. “You’re in a good mood for a guy who has people trying to kill him.”

“I _always_ have people trying to kill me… it’s a theme of my life,” said Alistair.

“Me too, actually…” laughed Anders.

They smiled at each other. For a split second, Alistair thought he felt something pass between them—a subtle hint of admiration or mutual respect—but they were interrupted by the tavern girl delivering a huge pitcher of ale.

“Sorry, Gents,” she said, blushing again. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Oh,” Alistair sat up suddenly, trying ineffectively to cover his bare chest. “No problem we _were_ …” he trailed off.

“My husband and I can’t keep our hands off each other,” said Anders smiling. He crossed to her and took the pitcher. “We’ve only just gotten married—can you make sure _no one else_ bothers us tonight?”

The girl smiled and winked at Anders. “Of course…” She looked at Alistair girlishly. “I’m not supposed to do this, but here’s the key to the washroom down the hall—in case you need to have some private time in there too… It has a _lovely_ bathtub.”

“You’re a saint,” said Anders, ushering her out.

Alistair thought he might be blushing from his head to his heels. His pulse had quickened a little too. “That was…”

“I think the word you’re looking for is _clever_ ,” interrupted Anders. “Now no one will come looking for us and we can slip away tomorrow morning before anyone is the wiser.”

Alistair nodded.

“We can even take baths if you’d like,” he flipped the key over in his hand a few times before setting it down on the mantle.

Alistair _would_ actually like to bathe. He dropped his feet onto the floor at the edge of the bed.

“You know, I used to be so hearty,” he laughed to himself, “I used to camp for weeks—months—but now I _relish_ bathtubs and silk sheets…”

Anders came to sit next to him. “I know what you mean… do you want to go first or should I?”

“What if that girl sees you?” asked Alistair. “She’s going to know we’re not together.”

“Are you trying to get invited to my bath, _Your Majesty_?” flirted Anders.

Alistair turned an especially bright shade of red at the suggestion. “ _No_ … never mind.” He stood up and grabbed the key off the mantle. “Here: you go first.”

 

 


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders and Alistair get drunk... hilarity ensues... Anders invents a name for himself.

**Anders**

When Anders returned from the bathtub, the room was dark except for a dying fire. He hadn’t been gone long, but Alistair was still healing and the trip had taken a lot out of him. He squinted at the bed in the relative darkness and found that Alistair was on his side, facing the wall. He had pulled the covers back in what Anders thought was a nice _gesture_ , although the space was unbelievably small.

Anders pushed a towel through his damp hair again and made sure his pants were tied firmly in place before pouring himself in next to Alistair and closing his eyes.

“You smell ridiculously good,” said Alistair groggily.

Anders laughed, “I didn’t mean to wake you… _thanks_ , though.”

“You didn’t wake me—I’ve just been _trying_ to sleep… _ineffectively_ ,” said Alistair. He sat up, letting the covers fall to his waist. “Maybe if I drink _all_ that ale as fast as possible…”

“Well, I’ve never been one to let a man drink alone,” laughed Anders. He grabbed two cups and filled them from the pitcher. “To being fugitives,” he toasted.

Alistair grimaced, “ _I’m_ not a fugitive—that’s just _you_ …” he eyed Anders skeptically. “...but I _am_ in the mood to get sort of drunk…” He took a large gulp from the side of his mug and wiped some foam away from his lips with the back of his arm.

Anders matched him, drinking deeply. The ale wasn’t bad, actually, and Anders was something of an expert. He’d camped out in almost every inn and alehouse from here to the Anderfels.

“How long have you been running like this?” asked Alistair suddenly. His mood had changed dramatically. He was staring unseeingly into the fire.

“Well… that is a matter of semantics,” Anders explained. “I started out running like we did yesterday—tents and the like—but I got smart about using taverns eventually.” He let his shoulder brush against Alistair’s in a gesture of something he couldn’t explain—camaraderie or understanding?

Alistair nodded and drained the rest of his mug before grabbing at the pitcher for another.

“Why do you ask?” Anders blinked up at him—his face was in variable shadow from the flickering flames.

“I wanted to run _hundreds_ of times,” said Alistair, sitting back down on the edge of the bed. “When I was training to be a templar; when I learned I had to fight against a blight; even when I was a kid growing up in Redcliffe Castle.”

Anders nodded, “I understand… I suppose I’ve been running my whole life too—I escaped from the circle seven times.”

“ _Seven_?” asked Alistair. He turned to look at him, wide-eyed.

Anders nodded and finished his own drink. He refilled it, but let it sit on the bedside table next to them.

“I am going to assume you’ve _seen_ a circle before—they’re horrible,” said Anders.

Alistair didn’t argue. He just looked back at the fire and refilled his mug for a third time.

They sat there silently swallowing for the next half hour. Even though neither of them spoke, the quiet didn’t feel strained. Anders was drinking in the nuances of what Alistair was _feeling_ —it was a mixture of calm resolve and unmitigated turmoil. He could only wonder what information Alistair was gleaning from being next to _him_.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Anders awoke in a tangle of bedsheets. His face was buried against the mattress while a down pillow surrounded his head. He blinked into blackness a few times before he managed to move it. What he was _not_ expecting was to find a strong arm draped across his back. It made his attempt to sit upright more difficult than it would have been.

“Alistair?” whispered Anders.

Alistair didn’t move. His face was squished against his own pillow and his eyes only closed tighter when Anders attempted to move out from under his arm. Anders tried to recall the events that led them to this sleeping situation with some difficulty. He turned his head and noticed the pitcher of ale was completely drained—that explained a lot. He was relatively sure they hadn’t done anything _too_ serious, though, because they both seemed to be wearing pants. It was a small comfort, at least.

“Alistair?” Anders whispered again.

This time, Alistair moved, but in the wrong direction. He tightened his grip across Anders’ back and pulled him across the sheets against his chest.

Anders _could_ have struggled—he _could_ have resisted—but he didn’t. Instead, he resigned himself to being nose to nose with this bear of a man.

When Alistair finally did open his eyes, he looked a little surprised, but he didn’t immediately pull away as Anders anticipated he would.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” said Anders. He gripped Alistair’s upper arm. “Are you going to release me from _this_ prison as well?”

Alistair smiled, “I don’t think so…”

Anders frowned, “ _What_?” He wasn’t sure he’d heard him right.

“I _doubt_ it,” repeated Alistair. He leaned in and kissed Anders hard on the mouth.

“Hold on,” Anders backed up—wriggling free of Alistair’s caging arms and nearly falling onto the floor in the process. He righted himself and tried not to shiver in the cool air of the room.

“What’s wrong?” asked Alistair. He sat up in bed and squinted.

“Did we—” Anders looked around the room for clues, but came up empty, “ _do_ something last night?”

Alistair raised his eyebrows and laughed, “I knew you were drunk, but you assured me you weren’t _that_ drunk…”

“Remind me?” asked Anders. He wrapped his arms around himself in a feeble attempt to stay warm.

Alistair pulled the covers back in a gesture that clearly meant, ‘ _sit here_ ,’ but Anders didn’t move.

“You said you’d been running your whole life. We sat silently together for half an hour, _drinking heavily_ , and finally I turned to you and said we should go to bed,” Alistair blushed, “and then you _kissed_ me—and we didn’t stop until we fell asleep…”

Now it was Anders’ turn to blush. He felt heat creeping across the surface of his skin in all directions. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Why?” asked Alistair. “I haven’t been kissed so _enthusiastically_ in years.”

Anders managed to smile. He was freezing. Out of desperation, he sat back down in the bed with Alistair, who immediately pulled the covers up to their necks.

“I’m sorry you don’t remember it, though,” whispered Alistair gently. “I usually try to make more of an impression than that…”

The details were starting to filter back in. “No… I remember… your beard is very rough…” Anders reached up to touch the edges of Alistair’s jaw. “And…” he squinted over Alistair’s shoulder, “Did I _hurt_ you in some way?”

“Yes,” said Alistair seriously, “you grabbed onto my side hard enough that I saw stars. You somehow _forgot_ you spent the whole day fixing it yesterday.”

“Maker… I’m sorry about that,” said Anders. He let his hand wander experimentally to rest on Alistair’s waist. Nothing bad happened.

“We should probably go before the whole tavern starts to wake up,” suggested Alistair. He didn’t move, though.

“I suppose,” said Anders. Now that he knew it was _allowed_ , he had half a mind to roll Alistair onto his back and kiss him a few more times, but he knew they had to go. “Let’s get dressed…”

Alistair pushed the covers back roughly, which let all the heat escape into the room. He jumped out of bed and began putting on layer after layer of clothing.

Anders watched him for a minute—his body was something of a mystery to Anders since he couldn’t _really_ remember touching it with anything but clinical professionalism. His chest was extremely broad and coated in only the finest layer of ginger hair. His abdomen was thick and full of blocky dents that begged to be touched...or _licked_ —licked would have been good.

“Are you coming?” asked Alistair. He pulled a shirt on over his head and furrowed his brow.

“Yes,” answered Anders. He got up and leaned over to gather his things that were strewn across the floor. A hand was on his back a second later. He looked up.

“Hey, you don’t have to worry—I’m not _expecting_ anything,” said Alistair sweetly. Anders watched him swallow hard—as if a lump was forming in the back of his throat.

“I understand,” said Anders. He wanted to kiss him again—he wanted to see what Alistair _tasted_ like when he was awake and aware of his actions, but he didn’t—what would be the point? They would be back in Denerim before Anders knew it and he would be _lucky_ if he wasn’t sent directly back to a cell.

 

* * *

 

**Alistair**

“Is that everything, _Love_?” asked Alistair loudly. He was making a point with the endearment in case that serving girl was within earshot.

“Yes, I think so,” said Anders.

Alistair rolled his eyes and pulled Anders down the stairs by his waist.

“Did you two have a good night?” asked the girl. She was sitting behind the bar preparing some delicious-smelling breakfast.

“Yes, of course,” said Alistair. He tightened his grip on Anders and kissed his cheek. “Thank you very much—here’s your key.”

“You’re not staying for breakfast?” she asked.

Alistair looked at the food a little desperately. He felt his stomach tying itself in knots just thinking about it.

“I suppose we could stay for just a _few_ minutes more, right Darling?” he asked.

Anders sighed almost imperceptibly, but nodded.

“Perfect,” said Alistair. “Can we sit at this table?” he asked.

The woman nodded.

“What are you doing?” whispered Anders when they were alone at the table.

“We are going to have to _eat_ eventually,” said Alistair. “...and if your metabolism is anything like _mine_ is since the joining, that time is going to come sooner than later.”

Anders shrugged as food began appearing in front of them. There were biscuits and eggs and even some bacon. Alistair felt like he’d never been so hungry in his life, but that’s what he felt like at _most_ mealtimes.

“So, how did you two meet?” asked the girl.

Alistair almost choked on an inhaled egg. Anders patted his arm across the table.

“It’s all right, _Dear_ , I’ll tell her; you just focus on _chewing_ ,” he said pointedly.

Alistair huffed.

“We’ve actually known each other for years—mutual friends and whatnot—” he gave Alistair a look that Alistair didn’t completely understand. “But then I came to stay with him by complete happenstance and we fell into each other.”

Anders brushed his hand against Alistair’s thigh under the corner of the table.

“We’ve been together ever since,” concluded Anders.

Alistair had to hand it to him—none of that was a _lie_.

“Isn’t that nice?” said the girl absently. She disappeared behind the counter and left them to finish their breakfast.

 

* * *

 

“Where to now?” asked Anders outside.

“The castle,” answered Alistair, shouldering his pack.

Anders let out a little strangled sound from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Don’t worry—my uncle lives there,” said Alistair. “And no one is going to attack us in broad daylight in the middle of the town. There are children running around, for Andraste’s sake,” he sidestepped two little girls playing tag.

Anders bristled.

At the castle gates, a guard eyed them suspiciously.

“I realize I’m dressed a bit differently, but tell Arl Teagan that his nephew is here…” said Alistair.

Recognition dawned on his face. He bowed theatrically and lifted the gate. “Whom should I say accompanies you?”

Alistair looked at Anders for a split second—it seemed unfair to announce that he was transporting a dangerous fugitive: Anders would be back in a cell before dinner.

“Erik Frey,” said Anders suddenly.

Alistair tried not to make a face, “Yes… _Lord_ Frey…”

At the main hall, they were announced: ‘His Majesty, King Alistair Theirin, and Lord Erik Frey.’

“Erik, huh?” whispered Alistair almost inaudibly.

“Alistair?” called Teagan. “What are you doing here? Why are you _dressed_ like that?” he looked over Alistair’s clothes in thinly-veiled disgust.

“We were attacked on our way to the village,” explained Alistair. “We were coming to deliver supplies and assess the damage the rebel mages might have caused…”

Anders hadn’t said anything, but Alistair could feel a flicker of rage pour off of him at the mention of mages.

“You should have known better than to let them set up an encampment here,” said Teagan dismissively.

Alistair looked on in horror as a blue tint appeared in Anders’ eyes. Thankfully, Anders turned away and coughed.

“Do you need some water?” asked Alistair. He put a hand on Anders’ shoulder gently.

Anders nodded, “thank you.” His eyes were honey-brown— _normal_.

A servant appeared with a pitcher of water and several glasses a moment later.

“We could use a place to stay for the night before we decide how to proceed. Clearly, someone is after me—the men who attacked us were highly skilled and organized,” explained Alistair.

Teagan nodded. “I’ll have my staff show you to the guest wing.”


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Anders spend the night together--a night which leads to more nights... 
> 
> I want to thank everyone for following me on this quick little journey. As it turns out, it's getting longer... there will be another 4-chapter block in this universe. You'll see why it's necessary at the end of this chapter. :) Happy reading!
> 
> Warning: NSFW below. ;)

* * *

 

**Anders**

The accommodations could not have been a bigger contrast to the night before. The room he found himself in had two fireplaces, a full sitting area and a bed large enough for he and Alistair to sleep next to each other and never even touch. Not that they would _need_ to—Alistair was next door in his own room, likely of disproportionate opulence.

They’d managed to get through dinner without an incident. When the question of Anders’ origin came up, he vaguely mentioned the Anderfels and trips to Antiva and left it at that. Everyone was much more interested in hearing about the _attack_ , anyway.

Now, at half past midnight, Anders was ready to _pour_ himself into bed and drift off into a—hopefully—dreamless sleep. Lately, he was plagued by fade spirits at night. This was true of most mages, but it had been getting worse for him steadily. The more tired he became—the more worn down—the more restless Justice became. His current state of dormancy was tenuous at best.

[ _Knock-knock_.]

“Yes?” called Anders tentatively. He’d already gotten undressed. He hastily pulled a too-long tunic over his head and opened the door a crack.

“Hi,” said Alistair. He looked up and down the hallway nervously. “Can I come in?”

Anders opened the door for him and wished he’d managed to put pants on.  “What is it?” he asked.

“I wanted to see if you were all right,” said Alistair. He looked uncharacteristically flushed—and for him that was saying something. In their few short days on the run, Anders had catalogued the shades of blush that Alistair could be coaxed into—this was a new one.

“I seem to be,” answered Anders. “Are _you_?”

Alistair let a breath out that seemed to collapse his chest considerably. “I think so… I just wanted to apologize for making you pretend to be this Lord Frey person…”

Anders laughed. “It’s not a problem—I’d rather be him than Anders.”

“I suppose you are much less likely to be dragged off to the dungeon,” said Alistair. He reached his arms out a few inches, as if he was going to _hug_ Anders, but seemed to change his mind halfway. His arms fell limply to his sides.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” asked Anders. He took two steps cautiously toward Alistair and interlaced their fingers.

“I think so,” said Alistair. He managed to smile as he gripped Anders’ hands. “Could I stay with you?” he asked suddenly.

Anders lifted a single eyebrow, “I think there’s plenty of space…”

As Alistair leaned in for the first kiss of the night, Anders wondered what on earth was happening here, but he didn’t dare ask—that might make it _stop_. He leaned against Alistair and let his tongue slide lazily between his lips. Anders trailed a hand down his side and started unbuckling his belt.

“You didn’t think to take some of this off before you came?” he teased.

Alistair smirked, “I knew you’d help me…”

“Oh, it’s like _that_ , is it?” laughed Anders. He looked down at his hands and managed to free Alistair from his belt and pants almost simultaneously. Alistair pulled his shirt off over his head. When he was standing there, completely bare, he pulled Anders’ tunic off. It was rather anticlimactic in Anders’ opinion—he only had _one_ article of clothing to be freed from.

“Bed?” asked Alistair breathlessly.

Anders nodded and raced over to pull back the covers. Alistair grabbed him around the waist and pushed him back onto the sheets, kissing a line along his clavicle. He climbed atop him in the giant bed and straddled Anders’ hips.

“How do you imagine this going down?” asked Anders tentatively. He wasn’t one to argue with _any_ suggestion, but he was getting the impression that Alistair was _nervous_ —the feeling was apparent throughout the room.

Alistair let his head drop onto Anders’ chest and laughed into the skin. “I have no idea—I just thought things would _happen_ … and I _want_ them to happen—I really do.”

Anders ground his hips up into Alistair’s abdomen in a gesture of confidence. He wanted him to _feel_ how much he wanted this too.

“I’ve never actually _been with_ a man before,” explained Alistair.

“Well, it’s essentially the same,” smiled Anders. “Basically, things get touched and rubbed until there’s a mess to be cleaned up and everyone is— _hopefully_ —shouting. Only it’s easier because you know all the anatomy involved _intimately_.”

Alistair laughed and sat up to his full height over Anders. He traced his fingers down Anders’ abdomen and eventually wrapped both palms around their brushing appendages. He pushed them together and rubbed. Anders thrust up into his hands in time.

“Let me show you something else,” whispered Anders. He put his own hand around Alistair’s cock and whispered the tiniest hint of a spell into the air. His hand grew warmer and sent tiny sparks of electricity into the sensitive skin.

Alistair’s eyes grew wide.

“More?” asked Anders.

Alistair nodded and leaned down to kiss Anders.

Anders channeled as much magic as he could—without creating an actual bolt—into his palms. Eventually, he was rubbing them over the surface of Alistair’s skin in all directions. He watched as the blue-green light sparked over his shuddering body.

“Good?”

Alistair nodded and kissed him harder. His hands were working hard between them—wrapping them both in warm skin that was smoother than Anders expected. He knew Alistair was a warrior—he thought they would be covered in calluses, but they weren’t—they were smooth and soft and incredibly gentle.

Anders wasn’t sure who came first, but whoever it was drove the other one to orgasm in a few short seconds. Hot, sticky liquid coated their stomachs, but Alistair clearly couldn’t be bothered to care. He let his torso rest on Anders and mouthed the skin of his shoulder and neck.

“Anders?” said Alistair suddenly. He didn’t pick up his head, so his voice was sort of muffled.

“Yes, Love?” asked Anders. He ran his hands up and down the flat of Alistair’s back.

“What’s your real name?” he asked.

“What kind of a question is that?” retorted Anders.

“I just want to know the _name_ of the person whose cum I’m absorbing,” said Alistair.

“You already do,” said Anders tentatively. “I’ve been Anders for so long…”

Alistair huffed, but he didn’t push it. Instead, he stood up and crossed the room to clean himself at the basin. Anders followed him and mimicked his actions a few seconds behind. When they were both clean and dry, Anders wondered what was going to happen.

“I’ll see you later, then?” he asked. His nonchalance was a well-trained coping mechanism for emotional situations.

Alistair squinted at him. “If that’s what you _want_ ,” said Alistair. “But I thought I might stay… for a while…” He wrapped his arms around Anders’ waist and kissed him gently.

Anders felt butterflies gathering in his gut. He _wished_ he didn’t—this was exactly the type of entanglement that always got him in trouble—but he didn’t know how _not_ to. “You can stay,” he whispered.

Alistair beamed as he pulled Anders by an arm back to the bed and between the covers.

 

* * *

 

**Alistair**

They spent a long time talking before they eventually fell asleep. When Alistair woke up, he found himself enmeshed with Anders. His head was on Anders’ chest and his arms were completely numb from hugging him so hard all night. In the moments before Anders stirred, Alistair wondered if he’d ever felt so safe in his whole life. It was a completely _mad_ thing to think, of course. Even as the thought occurred to him, another voice in his head tried to invalidate it. A third voice wondered if the first two voices meant he was finally going insane. Thankfully, Anders woke up a second later to save him from himself.

“Good morning,” he said. He kissed the top of Alistair’s head gently. “What time is it?”

“I think we may have missed breakfast already,” said Alistair. He hadn’t moved an inch. He kept his arms tightly locked around Anders’ chest.

“What?” Anders stiffened away from him and Alistair eventually had to give up and let go. “Aren’t they going to notice you’re missing?”

Alistair shrugged, sitting up. “So what?”

Anders looked flabbergasted. “They’re likely to think I _kidnapped_ you and used blood magic to get you into my bed. I’ll be back in a circle—or worse—before the day’s out.” He stood suddenly and started dressing chaotically.

Alistair chased him across the room and cupped his cheeks. “That is absolutely not going to happen.”

Anders stilled.

“I’m the King—I’m allowed to have sex with whomever I want,” said Alistair haughtily.

“Oh yeah?” said Anders, “Have you tested out that particular theory on many wanted-apostate-mages?”

“Not lately,” joked Alistair. He let his hands slide down Anders’ neck and shoulders and come to rest on his hips. “But I’d like to see anyone try to get to you—they’ll have to get through me first.”

Anders leaned in and kissed him—soft and slow.

“Come on,” Alistair smiled, “let’s go demand that they extend breakfast for another hour.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

**Anders**

And that was it—they were together. The next two years passed with barely a _hint_ of trouble. The ‘Arcane Adviser,’ Erik Frey, was next to King Alistair at all formal functions and rode on his left flank when they went out. It was only a _‘slight resemblance’_ that originally led everyone to believe that Erik was Anders—that devilish apostate who was still at large somewhere. If anyone _didn’t_ believe their story, it wasn’t apparent. To date, no one had dared challenge them.

“Wake up, Love,” said Anders one morning. He threw a pillow at Alistair’s head from across the room. He had already been up for an hour.

Alistair groaned.

“Come on, Dear,” said Anders, approaching the side of the bed. “Seneschal-whats-his-face was just here… the Inquisitor is apparently requesting an audience with you…”

Alistair perked up at that, “Icis Lavellan? What does she want?”

Anders sat next to him in bed and kissed him before answering. “I’m not sure… he didn’t say…”

“You’re coming with me, right?” asked Alistair. He looked a little bewildered.

“Sure,” said Anders. He carded a hand through Alistair’s greying temple. “I’ve never met her before. It will be fun.”

“Fun is probably not the right word… she’s a tyrant,” said Alistair.

“I love you,” Anders kissed the tip of Alistair’s nose and stood up again, “you know that, right?”

Alistair grinned. “So I’ve been told.” He stood and wrapped his arms around Anders’ waist. “But I think if you really loved me you’d come back to bed…”

“As tempting as that sounds…” Anders eyed the bed. The sheets were an absolute catastrophe, but he couldn’t think of any place he’d rather be. “We have to go.”

 

* * *

 

The great hall was especially full this morning. As Anders took his seat just to the left of the throne, he noticed that everyone he knew was in attendance. Apparently he wasn’t the _only_ one who wanted to get a glimpse of Inquisitor Lavellan. Alistair approached in full regalia a moment later. The crowd fell silent for his approach. For Anders, this whole thing used to feel ridiculous. He had to keep himself from laughing aloud—it’s hard to be reverent when you’ve been _inside_ someone. But now that they’d been together for so long—now that they’d been _in love_ for so long—Anders had his own kind of reverence. When he watched Alistair come in, he let his eyes wander across his form and he let a tiny secret smile escape _just_ for him. It was a way of saying, ‘you’re perfect and I love you.’

A trumpeter heralded the Inquisitor a second later. She was diminutive—likely not even five feet tall and young-looking. She was a formidable person, though. Everyone in Thedas owed her a debt of gratitude. As she approached the head of the room, several people in red dress clothes filed in behind her. When they got close enough, Anders stopped breathing. One of them was Cullen—standing _right here_ in Denerim: in Anders’ _home_.

For years, he’d wondered when this day would come—the day that someone from his past would recognize him and he’d be forced to run again. Only running had never felt so terrifying. He’d never had someone at home he’d be running _from_. His eyes shifted to Alistair, who was standing at the front of the hall. Anders was close to terrified tears when he saw him smile. That smile—the only one he ever wanted to see. How could he _possibly_ leave it?

Anders attempted to shrink into the shadows of his high-backed chair. It was difficult, though, with sun streaming in from all sides of the hall. The summer weather could not have been better—not a cloud in the sky. In the time it took Alistair to welcome the group, he’d thought of a hundred unlikely ways to escape—all of which included running and never looking back. But he didn’t move—not an inch—because moving meant getting further from _him_.

“You must have had a hard journey, would you like to retire to your quarters before dinner?” asked Alistair jovially.

Icis nodded slightly and looked at her advisers who were fanned out behind her. She reached for Cullen’s hand and he took it, stepping forward. In the next second three things happened almost simultaneously: Anders realized that Icis Lavellan and Cullen Rutherford were _together_. Alistair looked at Anders as if to say, _‘isn’t that cute?’_ and Cullen _followed his gaze_ to Anders.

“Your Majesty,” called Cullen, suddenly. He dropped Icis’ hand and stepped forward to grab Alistair’s shoulder, effectively spinning him toward Anders. “This man is a wanted apostate—he may have been sent to kill you.”

Alistair looked at Cullen with a bemused expression. “Cullen, this is my Arcane Adviser.”

Cullen gripped Alistair’s shoulder tighter, pulling him off the steps at the front of the hall and toward the Inquisitor.

Anders watched in horror as eyes narrowed on him from every angle.

Teagan stepped forward, “Commander Rutherford,” he said soothingly, “this is Erik Frey, he has been here at court for over two years.”

Cullen steeled his expression. “This man is _not_ who he says he is. I was _there_ in Kirkwall—and I would know him _anywhere._ ”

Alistair bolted toward Anders. He stood in front of him and put his hands out to the ensuing mob. “Stop! This man is _not_ who you think he is,” he tried to explain. His voice was swallowed in the growing hum.

Anders’ arms were wrenched as two Inquisition guards grabbed him and pulled him upright. He struggled, but not hard—he would rather not be dragged out of the hall unconscious. When he disappeared down the hallway, he could still hear Alistair shouting.

 

 

 


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair tries to get Anders released from prison. Anders has a plan of his own.
> 
> [I seem to be completely incapable of writing things that are short....happy reading?]

**Alistair**

“This is absurd,” shouted Alistair. He banged his fist on the table for emphasis. “Cullen, I _know_ this man.”

They’d been shouting at each other for hours. Their voices carried ominously in the emptiness of the hall.

“He may have you under some type of _spell_ , Alistair,” said Cullen seriously. He whispered, as if the words themselves might have power to injure.

“Cullen,” Alistair took a steadying breath, “How long have we known each other?”

Cullen squinted at the non sequitur, “What?”

“ _How long_?” asked Alistair.

“Our whole lives…” sighed Cullen.

“Exactly,” Alistair smiled sadly, “so _believe_ me when I tell you—there’s no spell… I’m _in love_ with him—we’ve been together for the last two years—he would never do _anything_ to hurt me.”

Cullen stepped back. His mouth fell open.

“And I know you think it’s reckless and dangerous and you have _history_ with him…” continued Alistair “...but I can’t live without him.”

“Alistair, that is _ridiculous_ ,” said Cullen exasperatedly. “The man _blew up_ a chantry—killed _hundreds_ of people.”

“And what did _we_ do?” said Alistair venomously. “Haven’t we killed hundreds? Thousands?”

“We’re soldiers, Alistair; it’s different,” argued Cullen.

“And what about in the circle?” said Alistair. “How many did they cut down at a failed harrowing or if they tried to escape or if they—maker forbid—found someone to _love_ them?”

Cullen looked down at the floor.

“Cullen—I’m telling you—let this _go_ ,” said Alistair pleadingly. He put a hand on Cullen’s shoulder and leaned down to look into his eyes.

“I can’t do that.” Cullen shook himself free.

“Cullen,” Alistair’s voice came out high and pinched. “Please…”

Silence hung thickly as they looked at each other.

Finally, Cullen spoke, “You have _one hour_ to say goodbye, after that I’m taking him to be judged.” He walked toward the door, but paused before opening it. “It’s the best I can do.”

Alistair blinked to avoid crying in front of Cullen—he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. As soon as he closed the door, Alistair wiped a sleeve across his cheeks and rushed toward the dungeons.

 

* * *

 

Anders was huddled against the back of the cell. It was strange seeing him like this again—small and helpless: like the first day he was locked down here. It was especially gut wrenching because Alistair knew how strong he could be, how courageous he was, how kind and gentle and brave.

“Sweetheart,” breathed Alistair at the bars.

Anders rose to meet him and intertwined their fingers.

“Guard, get him out of here, this is ridiculous,” shouted Alistair.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, we’re under strict orders to surrender him to the Inquisition.”

Alistair was about to punch the guard, but Anders gripped his hand, pulling him back.

“I love you, Darling,” whispered Anders. “It’s okay.”

“This is _not_ okay,” said Alistair. He felt his jaw tightening around the words. “I’m going to get you out of here—we’re going to fight this.”

He turned to glare at the guards again, “At least give us a damn _minute_.” They nodded to each other hesitantly and turned to stand just outside the door.

Anders sighed when they were gone, “I love you, but there’s only _one_ way out of this for me… and I think you know that.” He raised an eyebrow to emphasize the point.

Alistair knew what he meant, of course. He meant _the plan_. In the early days of their relationship, Anders made Alistair agree—over and over—that if anyone caught him, Anders would escape and never come back. That they would _never_ see each other again. Alistair had eventually conceded—but he’d never been faced with the reality of actually losing Anders. He didn’t know it was _possible_ to fear the loss of someone so deeply.

“I can’t do it,” he croaked. The first tear fell down his cheek.

“Love,” Anders reached through the bars to cup his face. “You _can_ —I need you to let me go… _or,_ " he swallowed hard, "—I’m going to be _executed_.”

Alistair gripped onto the bars tighter.

“ _Love_ —I have to _go_ ,” said Anders.

“Please, don’t do this,” begged Alistair. “Please… Anders…”

Anders wouldn’t look at him.

“For fuck’s sake, Anders, I don’t even know your real name,” cried Alistair.

Anders froze and looked up at him. After a long pause, he whispered, “It’s _Erik_ …”

Alistair exhaled sharply.

“My parents were the Freys—they were a kind little family in the Anderfels,” explained Anders. “When I was taken to the circle, no one ever bothered to learn my name and I _liked_ it—I had _one thing_ they could never take from me.” He paused, “but, as you can see, I told you right away. I must have wanted you to _know_ me, even then.”

“I’m coming with you,” said Alistair suddenly.

Anders shook his head, but Alistair interrupted him. “ _I’m coming with you_ ,” he repeated. “Let’s go—right now.”

“You’re a king—they’ll never stop looking for you,” said Anders sadly.

“Then we’ll never stop running,” said Alistair.

 

Only, that _isn’t_ what happened. When Alistair woke up, he was alone on the cell floor, the guards were lying dead all around him and a hole had been blown through the wall at his left. The evidence in his immediate vicinity suggested Anders was long gone.

Alistair wept.

 

* * *

 

**2 Months Later**

**Anders**

Anders shot bolt upright and smacked his head against a low-hanging beam. He groaned. “Andraste’s ass…”

Anders blinked a few times—he had been in a deep enough sleep that he didn’t know where he was yet. As his vision filtered back in, he remembered. He was on the run—again.

“Dear Maker,” he said aloud, “where in Thedas am I?”

Of course, there was no one around to hear him. Something finally switched in his mind that helped ease the transition from normal to mentally _unstable_ —he now talked to himself fervently.  He blamed it on the prolonged silence of being alone—but he had a feeling it was really about something _else_ this time. Something like the insanity of losing the love of your life. What choice did he have, though? He could _never_ have let Alistair run with him.

He crawled toward a small window and looked out. The moon was still high in the sky, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall back to sleep. It was just as well, though. He had slept in this barn too many nights in a row already. It was time to move on.

Before he left, he leaned against the wall and decided to write. It was a habit—he’d been doing it since he left Denerim.

 

 **[** Dear Alistair, I miss you—what else is new? I was just having a very involved dream about you: we went to Lake Calenhad to throw rocks at the tower. I woke up laughing, but now I could cry. I forget what you smell like. How long will it take before I’ve forgotten the rest of you too? I feel like you’re disappearing piece by piece. **]**

 

He sighed and dropped the little leather-bound notebook onto his lap. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He had to keep running—he knew that—but, for the first time, the thought of living free wasn’t as appealing. Freedom wasn’t _anything_ without Alistair.

 

* * *

 

**Alistair**

Before Alistair opened his eyes, he stretched his limbs toward the four posters of his bed. He imagined that he would bump into a soft bit of blonde hair or a muscular leg, but he _didn’t_ —just like he hadn’t for the last two months. It took him a while to come to terms with the fact that Anders left him.

Each morning was especially difficult. They used to have a morning routine—Anders would get up before Alistair and make an entire pot of tea. He’d have it steaming on the bedside table before Alistair even opened his eyes. Then he’d slide back into bed and be there as the first thing Alistair saw. It was a silly trick on both their parts, really, because Alistair never really stayed asleep when Anders got out of bed, although he pretended to, and Anders tried to pretend that he’d magically _conjured_ the tea instead of brewing it. But _still_ —it was a tricky, funny, lovely morning every day for the last two years.

“Your Majesty?” called Cullen. He was right outside the door.

Alistair groaned.

“Alistair?” he repeated.

“Go away,” grumbled Alistair.

Cullen opened the door. Alistair threw a pillow at him and pulled the blankets up over his head.

“ _Alistair_ ,” Cullen sat presumptuously on the edge of Alistair’s bed.

“ _What_?” Alistair ripped the blankets down to his waist and sat up in a fit. “What could you _possibly_ want from me?”

“Nothing…” Cullen said uneasily, “It’s just—everyone’s getting a bit restless…”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Who is everyone?”

“Your aids, for one,” answered Cullen. “...and your subjects…”

Alistair huffed. He’d like to see _them_ try to go on after being abandoned. What made it worse was that this was the _second time_. When Cousland betrayed him at the Landsmeet and made Loghain a warden, he thought he’d never recover. He spent _years_ wallowing in self-pity. Horrifyingly, that whole ordeal _paled_ in comparison to the pain he felt now.

“He _left_ me,” said Alistair suddenly.

Cullen squinted at him.

“He _just left_ ,” Alistair repeated. He was staring at the bedspread unblinkingly.

Cullen reached for Alistair’s hand across the comforter. “I know… and I’m _so_ sorry,” he breathed.

Alistair didn’t look up at him.

“...but what did you expect to happen? He isn’t to be trusted,” added Cullen. “He’s an apostate _—an abomination_.”

Alistair ripped his hand away and glared at Cullen. Alistair was angry, but he wasn’t ready to hear anyone _else_ say anything bad about Anders.

“Sorry,” Cullen raised his palms in surrender. “I just don’t like to see you like this…”

Alistair rolled his eyes. That was _rich_ —Cullen was the _first_ person to reject him in his life, actually. With some _creative logic_ , he could blame Cullen for his persistent interest in people who eventually left him.

“Alistair—” Cullen leaned a little closer. “You’re going to get through this, you know…” he whispered. “It doesn’t feel like it now… but I _know_ you, and I know you’re stronger than this.”

Alistair tried to smile. “I’ll get up in a minute,” he acquiesced.

Cullen smiled and patted his shoulder as he rose. “I’ll see you down there…”


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years later, circumstances have changed for Alistair, but his heart hasn't.

**2 Years Later**

**Alistair**

“ _Your Majesty_ ,” whispered an attendant, “we have information on the whereabouts of the apostate, Anders…”

Alistair stopped breathing.

It had been a day like any other. He got up; trained in the yard with Cullen—who was a constant fixture at court now—had breakfast, and eventually landed in the throne room listening to reports and requests. He was _happy_ these days, despite all the turmoil in Thedas. Icis had gone off to find Solas—a decision that was the final blow to her relationship with Cullen. _That_ turn of events left the door open for a variety of other possibilities that proved quite soothing to both of them.

But at this _particular_ moment—hearing Anders’ name—Alistair felt ice cold.

“Leave the information in my chambers,” whispered Alistair.

 

* * *

 

He went through the rest of the day in a _haze_ —just waiting for the right time to slip away. When he finally made it to his room, he found the fire already roaring and Cullen pouring over documents at the adjacent desk.

“Hi,” Cullen was wearing a smirk.

“Hi,” echoed Alistair distractedly. “Did you see a sealed scroll around here?”

Cullen shook his head. “I didn’t move anything off the desk.”

Alistair leaned over Cullen to survey the desk for himself. Cullen nuzzled into his chest as he did. Alistair brushed him off.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Cullen flatly.

“Nothing,” Alistair lied.

Cullen stood, “Is _this_ not working for you?” he asked cautiously.

“ _What_?” asked Alistair. He was irritated and preoccupied. “Oh…” he softened. “ _No_ … it’s not that…”

Cullen folded his arms across his chest.

“It’s just—” he interrupted himself. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell Cullen about Anders or not. This _thing_ they had going on was casual, _easy_ , sort of comforting—he wasn’t sure if he wanted to complicate it over some _rumor_.

Cullen raised an eyebrow.

“It’s nothing—I’m sorry,” he hugged Cullen and spoke into the skin of his neck, “It’s just been a really long day… and I thought I brought some court documents up here… but I guess I _forgot_ them… I’m going to have to go back down…” he mumbled.

Cullen kissed Alistair’s cheek, “Don’t stay away too long…”

Alistair turned his head slightly and smiled. “Or _what_?”

“Or I’ll have to start without you…” smirked Cullen.

“That’s not much incentive—I _like_ that,” said Alistair haughtily.

“Then I’ll have to _finish_ without you,” threatened Cullen.

They both laughed.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” said Alistair.

 

* * *

 

Around the corner, Alistair felt a tiny twinge of guilt. He probably should have told Cullen… but there was basically nothing to tell _yet_ —at least, not until he reviewed all the facts.

“Your Majesty,” the spy from earlier was in Alistair’s office when he arrived. “I’m sorry I didn’t leave the information in your chambers—Commander Rutherford was working in there when I arrived.”

Alistair nodded, “It’s not a problem. What have you found?”

“It’s all in here,” he stretched a map out onto the desk. “His movements over the last year…” He traced a line with his index finger. “It all ends _here_ —by a stroke of luck, we heard of a prisoner matching his description being picked up on the Orlesian border.”

Alistair licked his lips, “How do we know it’s him?” There were lots of too-thin vagrants on the run in Thedas, unfortunately.

“They picked him up running a free clinic…” said the spy.

Alistair’s heart fluttered.

 

* * *

 

**Anders**

Well, he’d managed to do it _again_ —get himself caught for the fiftieth time. At least he could depend on himself to get free again eventually—it was the _only_ perk of being caught so frequently. This prison was hardly the most secure one he’d ever been in. It was filled with frilly Orlesian guards, who were more concerned with keeping their masks in place than actually keeping hold of the prisoners. He just had to wait it out long enough to know the guard rotation—to see the weakest links in the chain of command.

He pushed a crude spoon through a bowl of lumpy oatmeal. At least it was _supposed_ to be oatmeal—it seemed more like reconstituted mucous. He leaned his nose as close as possible to the fresh air outside his one small window and tried not to gag.

That’s when he saw it: something unusual in the distance: a group of fast-approaching military types; a pale yellow-gold shield on a background of black. Were those lions on its edges? His pulse started to quicken: that was the Theirin family crest.

He dropped the bowl of gruel and clutched onto the edges of the windowsill. He squinted as they came closer. He scanned the group for a shock of red hair or a hint of Alistair’s profile, but he didn’t find him—he wasn’t there.

When the group disappeared around the building, Anders started gathering his things. He’d been involved in enough prisoner transfers to know when he was about to be forcefully moved. He needed to make sure he was ready to go.

The door burst open. A gruff-looking man with a black beard barked something at the Orlesian guard, who seemed to be shaking.

“Anders?” the big man sidled up to Anders’ cage.

He nodded hesitantly.

“We have orders here to transfer you back to Ferelden,” he opened a long scroll and squinted at it. “Crimes against the crown…”

“Against the _crown_?” Anders echoed incredulously.

The man glared at him over the top of the scroll. A few hairs of his mustache twitched unpleasantly.

“Well, I guess I’ll just _wait_ to find out what that means, then, won’t I?” quipped Anders. He rolled his eyes and extended his wrists in a gesture of surrender.

The door to his cell swung open, but to his horror, he wasn’t fitted with manacles. Instead, iron mitts were shoved onto each of his hands. They were heavy and completely impervious to magic, unless he wanted to melt them—and burn his own flesh off in the process.

“Is this _really_ necessary?” he asked.

The big guard smirked, “According to His Majesty, it is…”

Anders seethed.

 

* * *

 

**Alistair**

He’d sent the guards out two weeks ago—they would be back any minute, unless something had gone wrong. He guessed that nothing had, though. He’d taken _every_ precaution. He’d thought of _every_ contingency. Except one: _Cullen_.

“Al, are you coming to bed soon?” asked Cullen. He was already reclining across Alistair’s mattress—strategically placed blankets leaving _just enough_ to the imagination.

Alistair tried to look relaxed. “Just a minute—I’m drafting a letter…”

Cullen was suddenly right behind him, arms wrapping around his shoulders.

Alistair _tried_ not to recoil, but he felt it happening anyway.

“What’s the matter?” asked Cullen. He kissed the expanse of skin between Alistair’s neck and shoulder.

“I have to tell you something,” said Alistair seriously. He turned his head in such a way that their noses bumped.

“Okay,” Cullen’s face softened. “But could we do that over there,” he gestured with his eyes toward the bed.

Alistair smirked. “Yes…” he pulled his clothes off and followed Cullen between the sheets. It was cold in Ferelden—the middle of winter—he wondered if the reason they’d fallen into each other was half-survival: the desire for body heat in the impending snow.

Cullen rolled onto his side and rested his head against his palm. “Okay, I’m ready…”

Alistair took a deep breath, “I found Anders.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow, but didn’t speak.

“...and I’m having him transferred back here…” added Alistair. He waited to see what happened to Cullen’s face—but it didn’t move at all. It looked like a mask. “Say something.”

Cullen blinked. “I’m not sure what you want me to say…”

“Anything,” Alistair bit his bottom lip. “That you think this is a terrible idea—that you think I’m insane…”

“—that I’m _jealous_ ,” added Cullen. “Isn’t that what you _really_ want?”

Alistair’s brow furrowed. “No…”

Cullen huffed and turned to face the ceiling. His arms floated above his head and he stared up unblinkingly.

“Cullen…” Alistair rolled until they were chest to chest. “I think we need to talk about _this_.” He looked at their bare skin pointedly. “I _mean_ … we never really decided what this _meant_ …”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “We’ve been sleeping together for _half a year_ …”

Alistair didn’t realize that much time had passed. He thought back to the _beginning_ —he’d still been a wreck over Anders. He spent all day and night sending spies to every corner of Thedas without much hope of actually finding anything. Icis and Cullen had a _very public_ fight that ended in her slamming Denerim’s city gates behind her—not to be seen in Ferelden since. Losing her arm _changed_ her.

Drinking heavily, they eventually tumbled into each other in the castle’s kitchens in the middle of the night. Alistair still remembered knocking over a whole basket of apples—they went skittering across the floor.

“I didn’t realize it had been so long,” admitted Alistair.

Cullen picked his head up. “ _What_?”

Alistair realized his mistake—what a _callous_ thing to say. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean it like _that_ …” Alistair reached for him, but Cullen was already standing and looking for his pants.

“Then how _did_ you mean it?” Cullen snapped.

Alistair didn’t have a good answer for that. There weren’t a lot of other ways to _forget_ how long you’ve been exclusively sleeping with _one_ person.

“Yeah…” Cullen pulled his shirt on. “That’s what I thought.”

“Where are you going?” asked Alistair. He kneeled and scooted toward the edge of the bed.

“To my own room…” answered Cullen.

“Why?” asked Alistair.

Cullen stopped. He turned incredibly slowly. When Alistair saw his face, there was an expression there he hadn’t seen before.

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Cullen. “…because I’m _in love_ with you.”

Alistair opened and closed his mouth several times, but he couldn’t seem to form words. He wanted to say something _kind_ —something to make Cullen feel better—but there was no way to do it without a bold-faced lie… and despite their history, despite the fact that Cullen was the _reason_ Anders had to run, Cullen didn’t deserve _that_.

“That’s what I thought…” muttered Cullen. He slammed the door behind him and was gone.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Alistair awoke to the sound of horns. His bedroom was freezing. He realized now that he hadn’t slept without Cullen in that bed for six months. He forgot what it felt like to wake up alone. He hadn’t felt so _hollow_ since Anders first left.

Standing, he padded over to his window and looked out. The heraldry confirmed his suspicions: the guards he sent were back—he could only hope they had Anders with them.

In the hallway, Alistair ran into Cullen. They were both hastily dressed—they apparently had the same idea about meeting the party.

“Would you rather I wasn’t there?” asked Cullen. It wasn’t _really_ a question, though. Alistair knew his tone well enough to tell it was an accusation.

“No, you can do whatever you want…” he answered. They fell into step next to each other, but looked straight ahead.

“That’s right,” said Cullen bitterly, “ _I forgot_ —I matter so little to you… I might as well be invisible.”

“Cullen—” Alistair sighed. “That isn’t _fair_ …”

“Don’t talk to me about _fair_ , Alistair,” he retorted. “I know enough about life to know that _fairness_ doesn’t enter into it.”

 


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders arrives back at court. Alistair comes clean.

**Anders**

The ride from Orlais was a hard one—it snowed almost every day, which made the trip take twice as long. Additionally, he had nothing but rags and rough blankets in the back of the barred wagon. His feet had been numb for the last two days straight. When they arrived at the palace, the guards had to drag him in—he couldn’t stand upright.

Although he was boiling mad, he actually felt relieved once they passed the castle gates—at least it was _warm_ in here.

The throne room looked a little different—more opulent. Things must be improving in Ferelden. He blinked into the multiple fireplaces and torches throughout the room. After being in the dark cabin of the wagon for the last two weeks, the light hurt his eyes.

Eventually, they reached the head of the room. Anders was thrown unceremoniously down onto his hands and knees at the foot of Alistair’s throne.

When his eyes acclimated to the light, he looked up at Alistair appraisingly: russet hair, tanned skin, a few dotted freckles across his cheeks. What struck Anders the most, though, was the pull he felt in his gut. It was like a string connecting them was pulled too taut. Alistair seemed to notice the sharp, uncomfortable feeling too, because his eyes snapped to Anders’ and rested there a moment too long to be an accident.

Anders was the first one to speak. “Your Majesty,” he gritted his teeth, “You wanted to _see_ me?” he almost smiled.

Alistair glared at him. “Guards, you can take the _gloves_ off… I don’t think he’d be _stupid_ enough to try anything in here.”

Anders didn’t like his tone, but he _was_ thankful to be able to move his hands again. He balled them into fists experimentally a few times when they were free.

“Anders—you’re accused of a variety of serious crimes against the crown,” said Alistair coldly. “In addition to those crimes you’ve been accused of in Kirkwall.”

Anders watched Alistair exchange a little nod with Cullen, who was sitting off to his left. Ironically, it was the chair in which _Anders_ used to be a permanent fixture.

“It seems to me this is a lot of preamble if you’re planning to _execute_ me,” said Anders sharply. He wasn’t sure what Alistair was playing at. What was the _point_ of all this?

“Certainly,” said Alistair. He stood and took several steps closer to where Anders was still kneeling.

The closer he got, the sharper the pain in his guts became—he would have normally blamed it on the taint… but he knew better.

“Anders,” said Alistair. He squatted down in front of him so they were eye to eye. He sucked in a breath, as if to speak, but seemed to change his mind and stood up again.

“Guards,” he commanded, “take this prisoner to the guest wing—put him in his old quarters.”

A variety of murmurs spread through the court.

“ _Lock_ him in,” added Alistair.

 

* * *

 

**Midnight**

            Anders wasn’t sleeping when _someone_ knocked on his door that night. He’d been sitting in the windowsill, looking out— _remembering_. In the _years_ he’d been away, he was never able to forget this place. And now, to be back here under such strange circumstances—he shivered. He had known Alistair was looking for him the whole time. It was one of the reasons he moved so frequently. When he started working at the clinic in Orlais a month ago, he thought it had been long enough that Alistair finally gave up.

“Come in,” he said hesitantly. It was a silly thing to say, since whoever it was would need _keys_ to get inside, but he went through the motions anyway.

“Hi,” said Alistair. He closed the door behind him and bolted it.

Anders stood and backed up into the wall defensively. It felt _mad_ —here he was, standing with the person he’d been _dreaming_ about for two years, and he was _afraid_.

“I’m sorry about the guards—the transport—all of it,” sputtered Alistair. He rounded the bed and had his arms around Anders’ waist in a second.

Anders pushed him back, sending Alistair hurtling into the side of the bed.

“What are you playing at?” asked Anders.

Alistair stared, wide-eyed.

“You drag me down here only to lock me up…” said Anders bitterly. “Now you’re here—in the middle of the night… for _what_?”

 “I love you,” Alistair breathed. “I’m so sorry… for everything.”

Anders ground his molars. He loved Alistair—he’d never been able to stop for an instant. But what future was there for them when he was already planning his next escape. He almost laughed aloud—his whole life could be chronicled by the people he’d run from.

“Please…” whispered Alistair. He opened his arms—it was a question.

Anders wanted to push him again. He _almost_ wanted to hit him—he couldn’t stand the look on his face. It smacked of admiration and love in equal parts—neither of which Anders thought he deserved.

Instead, he found himself melting into the circle of Alistair’s arms and pushing him back toward the bed.

 

* * *

 

**Dawn**

“Sweetheart...” mumbled Alistair.

Anders blinked. He’d been drifting in and out of sleep for the last hour, although they’d been intermittently talking and making love all night.

“Yes, Love?” he asked.

“I missed you so much,” breathed Alistair.

Anders smiled and picked up his head off of Alistair’s chest. In the morning light, Alistair’s eyes looked like deep pools of liquid. “I missed you too—I used to write to you all the time, you know…”

“Really?” Alistair smiled and tightened his grip around Anders’ waist.

Anders nodded. “Fucking guards took my notebook away from me when they caught me in Orlais…” He sighed, “...but the whole thing was full of notes to you… from the entire two years.”

“Why did you do it?” asked Alistair.

“Because I wanted to remember every little thing about you,” Anders smiled. He lowered his face and dragged his lips across the surface of Alistair’s chest. “I wanted to remember how your sternum dips _in_ like this…” he kissed the tiny imperfect divet. “I wanted to remember this scar on your side…” He fingered a deep gouge between two of Alistair’s ribs. “...and most of all,” he kissed Alistair’s lips again, “I wanted to remember what you tasted like.”

Alistair laughed. “I love you…”

“I love you too…” whispered Anders. It had been a prayer on their lips all night—the punctuation of every stanza of lovemaking. “But Love,” Anders adjusted himself so he was straddling Alistair’s waist—as close as he could be, “what are we going to _do_ now?”

Alistair’s fingers dug into Anders’ hips.

“...I saw that _Cullen_ is still here,” whispered Anders. He didn’t want to seem adversarial, but Cullen was the closest thing he could _think of_ to a nemesis. “He’s going to want me extradited.”

A strange look passed over Alistair’s face.

“What is it?” asked Anders. He squinted thoughtfully.

Alistair peeled himself out from under Anders and sat against the headboard, pulling the blankets around them like a tent. When they were face to face, knee to knee, Alistair exhaled and swallowed hard.

“We were sleeping together,” admitted Alistair.

Anders felt like he’d been slapped.

“...it wasn’t _anything_ —not a relationship,” explained Alistair. “I just missed you so much… and he and I have known each other our whole lives…”

“Let me get this straight,” Anders retracted his limbs and curled them around his bare chest. He suddenly _felt_ naked next to Alistair. “...you were _having sex_ with the person who split us up? With a person who _tormented_ Hawke and me and _all our friends_ while I was in Kirkwall?”

“Anders…” Alistair reached for him, but Anders backed up. He jumped out of bed and started dressing.

He put out a hand to stop him. “Don’t touch me.”

Alistair didn’t push it, but he stood there, completely naked, looking pitiful, for a very long time. The pervasive mood between them was shared misery. “Do you wish I _lied_ about it?”

“I _wish_ you didn’t _do it_ ,” snapped Anders.

“Let’s not forget,” said Alistair, straightening to his full height, “ _you’re_ the one who left me!”

Anders laughed bitterly and shook his head, “Like I had a _choice_.” He started packing his things into a ratty sack. “I did that to _protect_ you,” he stopped and looked up at Alistair. “I left _because_ I love you—it was the hardest sacrifice I’ve _ever_ had to make.”

“Why are you packing?” asked Alistair.

“Because you should send me back down to the dungeons, or wherever you’re going to send me, before I do something we’ll both _regret_ ,” he let a small flicker of electricity erupt from his palm demonstratively.

“I’m not sending you anywhere,” said Alistair. He stepped closer until he could wrap his arms around Anders’ waist. “I’m going to find a way to pardon you…”

Anders fought—a little. But soon, he found himself limp and sobbing. It was a rare moment of vulnerability. He felt Justice bucking against it—but he’d been through _so_ much. He couldn't hold it together anymore.

“Sweetheart,” breathed Alistair, “I’m so sorry…”

Anders gripped into the flesh of Alistair’s back. “Just hold me,” he whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's really hard for Alistair to acknowledge his privilege. He has no idea what it's like to be a mage in this society.


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen takes matters into his own hands. The shocking conclusion for Alistair and Anders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! I had this chapter sort of ready, but after the US election it was hard for me to imagine doing anything but sobbing incoherently. Thank you so much for your patience and for reading! <3

**Cullen**

Cullen couldn’t sleep— _at all_ , ever. Not until the night he started sleeping in Alistair’s room. It felt ridiculous—stupid and childish—but his nightmares were better with Alistair next to him. So tonight—after six months of sleeping soundly—Cullen felt the difference.

Cullen threw the covers off in a fit and stood. He dressed quickly and raced down the hall to Alistair’s room. It was almost dawn—the sun was beginning to send intrusive beams in through the hallway windows. At the door, he paused. He didn’t have a plan beyond knocking—or breaking it down, if necessary.

So he knocked… and waited. But no one answered.

“Alistair?” he called.

Again, nothing. He turned the knob. Inside, his bed wasn’t slept in. Cullen swallowed hard—the realization dawned sickeningly.

 

His morning passed in a haze of jealousy and listlessness. He couldn’t even manage anger—he was too emotionally and physically exhausted. Eventually, he put himself together enough to attend a mid-morning briefing. He was _dreading_ it, but he had some concerns he needed to voice today.

When he arrived in the usual meeting room, everyone else was already sitting. Alistair looked like he hadn’t slept—he had dark circles around his eyes and his hair was mussed. Cullen shivered.

Cullen took his usual seat on Alistair’s left.

“I’m glad you’re here,” said one of the advisers, “maybe you can talk some _sense_ into him…” he gestured disparagingly in Alistair’s direction.

Cullen squinted at Alistair, who was fervently rolling his eyes.

“What’s going on?” asked Cullen.

Alistair ran a hand over his face and sighed.

“ _His Majesty_ is proposing that we pardon the prisoner…” groused the adviser.

“Is that true?” asked Cullen. He wasn’t sure why he asked, though— _of course it was_.

Alistair nodded.

“...and we’ve all told him that this is going to cause an _international_ upset,” said another aid. “If the Marchers don’t try to impose sanctions against us, the Orlesians definitely will—they were most negatively affected by the mage-rebellion.”

“They can’t blame him for the _entire_ war,” argued Alistair.

Cullen raised an eyebrow, “Can’t they?”

Alistair stood, sending his chair crashing to the floor. Everyone winced.

“Can I _see_ you for a minute?” asked Cullen. He extended an arm toward a smaller room to their left.

Alistair pulled on his waistcoat frustratedly, but followed Cullen out anyway. “ _What_?” he asked when they were alone.

Cullen leaned in—closer than was advisable for his current emotional state, “I’m about to say what you suggested yesterday: _you’re insane; have you lost your mind_?”

Alistair folded his arms across his chest, but did not back up.

“You’re jeopardizing the entire _country_ for someone who _left_ you for two years,” added Cullen. He tried to keep the jealousy from his voice. His guts were roiling with anguish, but he still _believed_ everything he was saying. He didn’t want his message to be tainted by their personal entanglement.

“Cullen—what _should_ I do?” asked Alistair belligerently. “Just send him to be executed? Give him over to the Marchers?”

Cullen swallowed hard.

“What would _you_ do?” added Alistair. “No—wait—I _know_ what you’d do… you’d have him killed just to get him out of the way…”

Cullen took exception to that, but it was _almost_ true. He couldn't think of anyone in Thedas he hated more than he hated Anders right now. He hated his politics. He hated his crimes. He hated his rhetoric. He _hated_ his manifesto. And more than anything else, he _hated_ how much Alistair apparently loved him.

“You know… I stopped by your room this morning,” said Cullen suddenly.

Alistair didn’t blush—he didn’t falter for a second. “So you _know_ then…”

Cullen stifled an urge to lean on something for support. He grit his teeth. “I suppose I do…”

“Cullen,” Alistair softened. “I didn’t _mean_ for this to happen… and I’m sorry you got caught in the middle… but—”

“—you don’t need to say anything else,” interrupted Cullen. He actually meant, ‘ _stop talking; I can’t take it_.’

“Fine…” Alistair shook his head, “but I’m moving forward with this pardon—with or without your support.”

That was the moment Cullen decided—he would have to take matters into his own hands.

 

* * *

 

**Anders**

**Midnight**

“Come in,” called Anders. He was sitting in a high-backed chair near the fire. He was only expecting _one_ person. He didn’t bother to look at the door when it opened. “Hello, Love,” he mumbled. “I was hoping you’d be here soon…”

Suddenly, everything went back. In the few seconds before he passed out, he saw a hazy figure standing over him in full leather armor—as big as Alistair, but _not_ gentle.

 

The next time he opened his eyes, he blinked into darkness. His head was covered by a burlap sack, his hands bound behind his back. The winter air whipped against his thin sweater and nipped the bits of skin exposed at the nape of his neck. He was in some kind of wagon—similar to the one that dragged him here from Orlais, but filled with straw. It scratched him through his pants.

He was suddenly aware of a presence right next to him.

“Where the hell are you taking me?” he yelled.

“None of your concern, Mage,” said the voice.

Anders struggled to turn himself toward the voice. “Is the _bag_ really necessary?” he whipped his head left and right, trying to free himself.

“I suppose not,” whispered the voice, “we’re far enough away this it isn’t going to matter…”

Anders spat a few burlap strings out of his mouth and tried to blow the hair out of his eyes when the bag was off. He blinked at his assailant. “Cullen—I should have known…”

Cullen didn’t say anything, but that scar on his upper lip twitched infuriatingly.

“So… are you handing me over to some government?” asked Anders flippantly. “No, wait… let me guess—slavers? The chantry itself?” He raised an eyebrow daringly.

Cullen didn’t look impressed. He leaned back against the side of the wagon and closed his eyes.

“Too afraid to talk to me?” spat Anders. “You know, magic isn’t _catching_ , you arrogant git.”

Anders could only see Cullen’s face in beams of moonlight that shone variably, but he thought Cullen might be smirking. _What an ass_.

“So what is this really about?” asked Anders. He knew Cullen was unlikely to answer him, but he found it hard to stay silent.

Cullen made a noncommittal grunting sound.

“Since it seems to be the middle of the night, I’m guessing this wasn’t a _sanctioned_ operation,” mused Anders. He squinted at Cullen, trying to discern any change in his expression. “Yes… seems like this might be personal…”

Cullen looked up at that. His eyes narrowed.

“He _told_ me, you know.” As Anders spoke, he felt a tingle of electricity spark in his palms behind his back. He was angrier than he’d realized.

“Told you what?” asked Cullen.

Anders rolled his eyes. “That you were fucking.”

Cullen managed to look imperious. “That might be how he described it, but you’d think differently if you’d seen us together…”

The implication of a _relationship_ was apparent in his tone. Anders swallowed hard, “Does this make you feel powerful, Commander?” asked Anders.

Cullen shifted back against the opposite wall of the wagon. “I could tell you details that would make your skin crawl… but none of that has to do with _this_. This is for Kirkwall… _this_ is for Elthina and the others who you wantonly killed in your crazed crusade. This is for the ones who can’t fight back anymore.”

Anders let his head crack back against the wall and closed his eyes. This was hardly the first time he’d been dragged somewhere against his will; it wasn’t even the first time he’d been dragged somewhere by Cullen, but it _was_ the first time he’d felt the sting of jealousy in the pit of his stomach.

 

While Anders was still ruminating, the wagon stopped short. He was thrown forward in the cabin. Without his hands to break his fall, he landed painfully on his shoulder and felt his head crack against the floor. He cursed inaudibly as Cullen opened the back hatch. It was apparently almost dawn. The sun was cresting through thickly wooded trees.

“Get up,” said Cullen. He dragged Anders by the arm toward the door.

“Where are we going?” asked Anders peevishly, “I do hope I’m dressed appropriately…”

Cullen rolled his eyes and grunted as he yanked Anders onto the ground and forced him to stand.

Anders was tempted to take this opportunity to headbut Cullen and try to make a break for it, but he wouldn’t get far without the use of his hands. He would have to bide his time.

A woman’s voice rang out from over Anders’ shoulder. Her accent was thick and he thought he recognized the timbre.

“Cullen, are you sure this was a good idea? I don’t know if the Inquisitor would have sanctioned this,” argued the woman.

Anders turned. It was Cassandra. He’d avoided actually meeting her for years, but he would have known her anywhere by reputation. It made sense that she’d be here with Cullen—they were old friends.

“The Inquisitor is on her own journey—she left us in charge of keeping things running here…” sighed Cullen. He sounded exhausted and annoyed.

“I just hope you know what you’re doing,” she muttered.

Anders felt like saying something flippant. He felt like doing something erratic and stupid, but he didn’t. Years of imprisonment had only made him smarter. Years of torture—stronger. “Is anyone going to tell me where we are?” he asked.

Cassandra looked at him for the first time. Her expression made it seem like it was _painful_ to let her eyes linger on his face. He was used to people looking at him in disgust, but Justice never got the hang of it. He felt his skin prickle.

“You’re getting on a ship,” he explained quietly. “You’re going back to Kirkwall—the viscount can deal with you however he pleases…”

Anders felt his brow pinch together. That seemed awfully _decent_ , considering. He expected to be thrown into a pit and forgotten. Varric was the viscount now—they weren’t best friends, but they had been something _like_ that… once… long ago.

“Can I ask why?” Anders cleared his throat.

Cassandra and Cullen looked at each other. Something secret passed from face to face, but neither said anything.

“Come on, we go the rest of the way on foot,” sighed Cassandra. She checked Anders with her shoulder, sending him hurtling forward.

“We need to make it to the harbor before midday,” added Cullen.

* * *

 

**Alistair**

“Well, your efforts haven’t been good enough, obviously,” shouted Alistair. The aids in front of him cowered slightly. He ran a palm over his face and closed his eyes.

“Your Majesty,” one of them bowed low, “Leliana is here…”

“Thank the Maker,” be breathed, looking up expectantly.

As soon as he discovered that Anders was missing, he’d called for her. There was no one more ruthless and precise than his old friend. As the doors swung open, she appeared from under a dark purple hood. She made an expression when their eyes met that simultaneously emboldened and terrified him.

“Lel,” he pulled her against his chest and spoke quietly into her ear. “I need your help… we need to speak in private.”

She pulled back slightly and nodded.

 

“So he was just _gone_?” asked Leliana once Alistair had explained the whole story. He’d gone into graphic detail on more than one occasion, but he couldn’t help it. He needed her to know how important this was. How much he _needed_ Anders.

“The room was empty—a book he was reading was open on the bed. A bath was drawn—the water was still warm,” sputtered Alistair.

“Who else is missing?” asked Leliana.

Alistair squinted.

She raised an eyebrow. “Al. Who _else_ is missing?”

“What makes you think anyone else is gone?” he asked.

“There were no signs of a struggle,” she paced, gesturing strongly, “no strangers seen in or around the area… no disturbances in the castle.” She stopped right in front of Alistair and put a hand on his shoulder. “Someone else is missing _or_ he left on his own.”

“ _He didn’t leave_ ,” managed Alistair. His tongue felt thick in his mouth.

Leliana nodded understandingly. “Then who else is missing?”

Alistair took a mental inventory of everyone he’d seen since midnight. And then it struck him. “Andraste…” his breath caught. “It’s Cullen—he’s not here. I haven’t seen him all night.”

Leliana nodded, already on her way to the other room where the advisers and aids were murmuring. “Someone go check Commander Rutherford’s chambers—we need to find him.”

* * *

 

They spent the next several days searching for him. No one along the roads had seen even a hint of Cullen, let alone a mage in his company—probably bound and gagged. Alistair shivered.

On the morning of the fourth day, Leliana was already at work when Alistair met her in the great hall. He had _theoretically_ slept, but he was no more rested as a result.

“Any news?” he asked. He dropped a cup of tea noisily on the edge of a long table.

She looked up, nonplussed. “None yet.”

Alistair wouldn’t have admitted it out loud, but he was starting to lose hope. Alarmingly, tears were starting to form in the corners of his eyes. He brushed a forearm across his brow, as if sweat or errant dust had made him weepy.

Just then, the doors at the back of the hall blew open.

“Cullen Rutherford, your Majesty,” announced a court attendant.

“Where is he? What did you do with him?” yelled Alistair. He jogged down the aisle to meet Cullen faster than he realized. He found it hard to stop, momentum almost toppling him into Cullen’s breastplate.

“Out of your reach,” snarled Cullen.

“You’re not even going to _deny_ it?” shrieked Alistair. His voice was teetering on the edge of hysterical.

“I did what I had to,” said Cullen solemnly.

Leliana arrived and stood between them. “Cullen, what _have_ you done?” she asked.

“Lady Nightingale,” he cleared his throat and leaned toward her, “I have spared the king of Ferelden a very costly and _dangerous_ international incident.”

“Cullen, how could you—” began Alistair.

Leliana interrupted him, “Alistair— _not here_. We need to use discretion.” She eyed the court warily. “Come on.”

Alistair followed her to a secluded corner of the courtyard out of respect for her. Frankly, he was surprised that he hadn’t attacked Cullen or started screaming unintelligibly.

“Okay, Cullen, explain what happened,” said Leliana, once they were alone.

Cullen folded his arms and seemed to grow taller as he prepared to speak. “The viscount of Kirkwall will deal with Anders.”

“What?” asked Alistair. He was prepared to be furious, but this wasn’t the news he was expecting. Giving Anders to Varric was tantamount to _mercy_. “You kidnapped my—” he interrupted himself; he wasn’t sure what to call him. He might have said lover once. He might have said _soulmate_. “You kidnapped Anders and sent him to Kirkwall?”

Cullen nodded. “I’m not a monster,” he snapped.

“When did you leave him there?” asked Leliana.

“I put him on the ship two days ago,” answered Cullen.

“Then there’s still time,” muttered Alistair. “I’ve got to get to him.”

Cullen let his head fall a little. It looked like he was in pain.

* * *

 

**Anders**

Anders had never been so thankful for a crappy meal in some hovel in the ass-end of the Free Marches. He’d never made it to Kirkwall. Who actually expected _that_ to happen? Didn’t Cullen and Cassandra know him well enough to know he couldn’t be sent by ship _anywhere_? That he would slip loose at the first sign of opportunity? Well, that’s what he’d done. And _now_ he was sitting with a dirty—but oddly attractive—young woman in a shack reminiscent of Darktown.

“Where did you say you were headed when your ship sank?” she asked.

It was a stupid lie, but she obviously didn’t get out much—she was gullible.

“I was headed across the sea to Kirkwall, but not for any particular reason,” said Anders. He brushed a hand through his hair with calculated nonchalance. “I’m a wanderer. I want to see all of the Maker’s beauty before I die.”

Her eyes widened wistfully. That line worked on a certain percentage of the population—Anders had met enough people to know which ones.

“Well, I’m glad you found me when you did,” she said, smiling.

She seemed like a very nice person. He almost regretted that he wouldn’t be here long enough to find out for sure. Before dawn, he needed to be on the road again—heading as far away from Kirkwall as he could manage. As far away from Cullen and Cassandra’s plans as possible. And, sadly, as far away from Alistair as his feet would carry him.

“Thank you again for all this,” said Anders, finishing his food. “I’d better get going…” He started to stand.

“Certainly you can wait until tomorrow?” she asked.

He looked out the window. It was already dark.

“I suppose a few hours of sleep wouldn’t hurt,” he shrugged.

She smiled. He noticed that her teeth were all intact—a _miracle_ in this part of Thedas. “I’ve got some extra blankets and you can sleep on this cot,” she pointed to a sagging frame on the far side of the room. Still, it was better than being outside.

“Thank you,” he said again. “By the way,” he bit his bottom lip, “do you happen to have any paper? I would like to send a letter to someone on my way out of town tomorrow…”

She nodded and handed him some things from a satchel. “Good night,” she disappeared behind a threadbare curtain and, presumably, went to sleep.

 **[** Dear Alistair: Well, we’re apart again. If you’re seething, I hope you realize that this was _always_ going to be the outcome for us. The fact that we got to spend one night together before this happened was an unlikely bonus—one we never deserved. You probably know by now that Cullen dropped me off on a ship bound for Kirkwall. At first I just thought he was a moron, but now I think he did it on purpose. I think he was trying to give me an out. I don’t know _why_ , considering we hate each other… but I think he might have done it for you. So, as much as it pains me to say this, thank that asshat for me. And then, maybe, think about being happy. I don’t necessarily want to picture you being happy _with him_ , but if that’s what it takes… maybe that’s what you should do. **]**

Anders put the quill down for a minute. He wanted to tell Alistair how much he loved him. How _wonderful_ he thought he was. How much he wished they could be together permanently—living together, making a family—but it all hurt too much. It hurt too much to _think_ it, let alone write it down. He sighed and picked up the quill again.

 **[** I’m so sorry to leave. I will miss you every day. But we’re both going to survive this. Yours always, Anders. **]**

* * *

 

**Six Months Later**

**Somewhere in the Anderfels**

**Alistair**

“That’s it, just hold your arm out and this will all be over before you know it,” said Anders. He patted a tiny boy on the top of his head and smiled. He seemed to be setting a broken bone. Alistair pulled a dark hood lower over his eyes and watched from the periphery of the room. The clinic was shabby, although probably not as bad as the one Anders had in Kirkwall, from the stories.

“All right, who’s next?” asked Anders. He looked around the room and brushed his hands on his robes. The way he was smiling made Alistair blush. Eventually, his gaze landed on Alistair. He sucked in a shocked breath.

“You, _Ser…_ ” he managed. “Won’t you come back here with me?” He gestured toward the back of the clinic.

Alistair followed with measured steps. He hadn’t come _this_ far and been _this_ careful to be recognized. He needed to be nondescript.

“What are you doing here?” whispered Anders, when they were alone.

Alistair felt his posture deteriorate. His chest caved in on itself as his shoulders curved forward. “I have searched all of Thedas for you…”

Anders exhaled sharply. “Why?”

“ _Why_?” parroted Alistair. “Because of your letter…”

“My letter?”

Alistair reached out and wound his fingers into Anders’ palm, against his better judgment. “Yes… I _knew_ what it meant… I read between the lines.”

Anders almost smiled. “You’ll never be safe with me, you know… they’ll never stop looking for me,” he said.

“Then we’ll never stop running,” said Alistair.

 

And _this_ time, they _didn’t_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at the end! Thank you so much for reading this little story. I'm back onto writing my bigger project, The Review, now, and look out for a completely new Anderstair story in the new year. It's called "Coffee Shop" and is written from Anders' perspective, first person, present tense in a modern AU. So if you're into that kind of thing, definitely stay tuned. :) 
> 
> THANK YOU!!


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